What if Strength Doesn't Feel Like Strength?

Ever notice how, in your most testing moments, someone always drops a line like, “You’re stronger than you think,” or “This is when you’ll find your strength”?

Yeah. That’s usually the moment you either feel like puking in your mouth or punching them in the face. But instead—because jail time and awkward family gatherings aren’t ideal—you nod politely, check out mentally, and add them to your internal “you don’t get it” list.

The truth? Their intentions are probably good. But their timing? Absolutely tragic. Throwing Hallmark-grade wisdom into someone’s personal pit of despair doesn’t help. If anything, it amplifies the loneliness. Now you’re not just struggling—you’re also questioning who else is silently judging your breakdown.

The sucky part: those cliché phrases? They’re not wrong. They’re just delivered like a glitter-covered, deflated life vest.

When we’re in the eye of the storm, we reach for what’s familiar—old coping patterns, default settings, things that got us through last time. But here’s reality: this moment isn’t that moment. And what worked before won’t work now.

That realization stings. But that sting? That’s the pivot point. That’s the moment power begins—quietly, clumsily, invisibly. Not that it feels like power. It feels like face-planting at rock bottom and realizing someone forgot to install a trampoline. Even the Hulk would look down and say, “Yeah… hard pass.”

And yet—somewhere in the wreckage—a voice whispers. Not one from a Pinterest quote or a motivational mug, but from your own story. It’s your inner Uncle Ben, calmly delivering his iconic line from the comic book cosmos: “With great power comes great responsibility.”

And something clicks.

You realize: you’re the hero in this chaotic, raw, no-filter version of your life. And if anyone’s going to save you—it’s going to have to be you.

Not because you’re already strong.

But because you’re willing to show up, bruised, tired, cape dragging, and claim the responsibility.

And that? That’s when the power starts to show up. Not perfect. Not polished. But real.

But here’s the thing: for any of us to hear that whisper from our inner Uncle Ben, the noise around us has to settle.

The unsolicited advice. The over-caffeinated pep talks. The pressure to “bounce back stronger.”

All of it drowns out the truth trying to rise inside.

This is where we, as coaches, must hold the line.

We must:

1. Trust the process.

2. Trust our clients.

3. Trust our coaching skills.

We’re not there to teach, push, or “inspire” them into action. We’re not their spotlight. We’re their mirror. Their sounding board. Their quiet space to hear themselves.

Instead, we ask:

• What are you listening to right now?

• What guides you to listen to that voice?

• How long do you need—or want—to stay tuned in to it?

• When you look back on this moment, how do you want to relate to it?

• What story do you want to tell from this chapter?

• Who do you need to become to "choose your own adventure" within this chapter?

• What does that version of you already know about the next step?

Because real power doesn’t come from being told what’s possible. It comes from hearing the part of you that already knew.

And when that happens? Everything starts to shift.

But let’s not fool ourselves—shifts are fragile.

That moment of clarity can feel strong at first, but none of us live in a vacuum. We're still out here, doing life, surrounded by people watching us try. And depending on how we interpret their interpretations, we start adjusting—backpedaling into the familiar just to feel safe.

This is the in-between—when we no longer want to sit in our suffering, but haven’t yet proven (to ourselves or others) that we’ve made it out.

Here, the fear creeps in: “What if they see me as weak? As a failure? As not ready?”

And while none of us want anyone else to point it out—Feeling unsure, lost, or broken isn’t a sign of failure. It’s the messy path to strength. To clarity. To success.

The only thing that makes those fears stick permanently is if we stop walking. If we freeze and label ourselves too soon.

Otherwise? People aren’t waiting to judge. They’re watching, quietly rooting for us—because in our underdog story, they see a piece of their own.

And if we can rise from our mess? They just might believe they can too.

It’s not about avoiding the middle. It’s about choosing to be responsible for what we make of it. Not the mess. But the meaning.